Heat of the Moment
by chocolate chip wookiee
Summary: August 31, 1888 - the night of the first Ripper killing. How did John Druitt become Jack the Ripper? Had it been a long time coming or did it just happen in the heat of the moment? Strong M, contains violence, murder, and references to adult situations.


**_A/N: _**_This is my first fic after a very long time... As it relates to the Ripper killings, it is a strong M, containing gore, violence, and references (albeit scarce) to adult situations. Consider yourselves warned. If you still want to continue reading, enjoy! (And if you feel like it, drop me a line afterwards. Good or bad, I welcome constructive criticism.)_

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><p><strong><span>Heat of the Moment<span>**

**August 31, 1888**

Montague John Druitt was gasping for air. He felt dizzy and his stomach was twisting painfully, urging him to dry heave. He staggered a few more steps into what might have been a back alley and then leaned forward, propping his arms against a brick wall in an attempt to regain balance. It was the middle of the night and darkness was everywhere, hot and thick like syrup. The air was still and the sharp stench of urine filled his nostrils, pervaded his every pore, his very being, nauseating him.

John took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the stench of poverty and decay, coughed a few times, spat, trying desperately to expel the bile that was rising in his throat. Cold sweat was running down his face, stinging in his eyes, and the white cotton shirt adhered wetly to his back under his black coat. The coat felt incredibly heavy and constricting, like a straightjacket. It was tightening around him, the seams burrowing mercilessly into his flesh, burning him alive. Frantically, he straightened up and fought to free himself of the heavy wool. He heard the noise of cloth tearing but that only strengthened his determination to liberate himself. Finally breaking free, he tossed the wretched bundle away and took a few steps back, leaning his back against the cold wall.

John closed his eyes and took a few more deep breaths. The dizziness began to falter, and John's head cleared up slightly. He enjoyed the coolness of the wall for a moment, regaining composure. He had no idea whatsoever where he was but judging by the stale air and echoes of drunks arguing somewhere on a distant street, he assumed it must be somewhere in the East End. John tried to remember how exactly he'd got there but his mind was a blur, his memory clouded by the sticky warmth of the darkness.

He touched his forehead, his hand felt surprisingly cool. The touch brought with it a sudden surge of emotion.

_Her hand touching his cheek, searing like hot metal. Her lips crushing his with primal hunger. Her tongue probing his mouth, claiming every bit of his being as her own. _

John felt a wave of feverish heat rising in his chest as the sensation of her body pressing against his filled his mind.

"Would ya like some company, 'andsome?" a woman's voice asked somewhere far away.

John let out a low growl, the heat pulsing through his body, opened his eyes and slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice.

He saw the silhouette of a woman, rather short, with hair tied back in a neat bun under a bonnet. She took a few steps towards him and he could make out her face. Somewhere in her mid-thirties, she wasn't young, but her face was pretty enough, with high cheekbones and delicate features.

The whore, because John knew that's what she was, took one more step and was now standing only a few feet away from him.

She looked him up and down appreciatively. "Is the gentleman lookin' fer a good time?"

John was about to tell her, in no uncertain terms, to leave him alone, when suddenly he caught a glimpse of her eyes.

Those eyes. Blue-grey, almost like…

The heat rose inside him once again, whirling in his stomach, and sent his head spinning.

_Her_ eyes.

He took an unsteady step towards her, she stepped back. Something flickered briefly through those two pools of grey.

Was it fear? Was she afraid?

A chill ran down his spine. She was afraid of him, he could sense it. It thrilled him, gave him strength. His head was spinning beyond control yet he felt like his mind and vision had never been clearer.

John didn't know how, but suddenly he felt cold metal slip into his right hand. Without looking, he knew instantly what it was. It was the silver handle of a richly engraved antique dagger. His chest constricted painfully; a gift from her.

"I'd be'er go, sir," said the whore and turned on her heel to leave.

The heat intensified. Anger rose from deep within him and permeated every vein in his body. How dare she? How dare the filthy whore refuse him? She isn't even a lady! Not like…

The anger filled his mind, pulsing in his brain, blinding him.

More out of instinct than anything else, he leapt forward. With one swift move, John grabbed her by the hair, pulling her close to him. She struggled, but John was stronger. He felt the intoxicating sense of power wash over him, through him.

John's left arm encircled her waist, while the other found its way up to her throat. Their bodies were touching; not an inch of space between them. He had her and she would not get away, not this time.

The contact aroused him; he could feel her heat melting into his own, multiplying it.

The dagger felt warm in his hand, like a natural extension of his fingers. He caressed her throat lightly with its sharp edge. She let out a moan, a whispered plea.

'_No, darling. Not here.'_

John tightened his grip. He would not let her slip away. Not again. She was breathing loudly, John could feel her chest heaving up and down. He felt her pulse racing. Or was it his own? He didn't know, they were one, so close to becoming that one being they were meant to be.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck. The war-drum of her pulse in his ears, throbbing agonizingly in his head. Her artery, the source of that maddening beat, right under his lips. He kissed the exposed flesh. She tasted salty. Sweat, cheap alcohol, filth. That wasn't right. _Her_ taste was sweet, sweet and tantalizing.

Rage filled him. A common whore! How could he have thought that would satisfy him?

The wild thumping of her pulse was deafening. He felt his entire being throbbing painfully to her beat. She would not have control over him!

The blade glistened briefly in the darkness as he burrowed it into her soft flesh. He moved it frantically from one side to another, slitting her throat.

The throbbing stopped. Her grew limp. Warm liquid spilled over his arm. A wave of relief. An exhilarating sensation of power. He was in control.

The smell of fresh blood titillated his nostrils. He inhaled deeply. The thrill of victory made its way down his spine to his lower abdomen.

He had conquered her, broken her spirit. Her blood, the very essence of her life belonged to him. She was his and would never refuse him again. Slowly, he raised the blade to her throat once more.

He made another cut. Tissue yielded compliantly as the steel made its way through, bit by bit, from left to right. He took great care this time, making sure that every vein, every muscle was severed thoroughly, and enjoyed every millimeter of the cut as the heat within him gradually subsided. It felt almost as if the blood flowing out of the wound were washing it away. The experience was almost spiritual, it occurred to him briefly this is what it must be like to be baptized by immersion.

Having completed the meticulous incision, he pulled out the blade carefully. Glistening with fresh blood, it was the color of Indian rubies. Reverently, he placed the dagger back into its decorative sheath hanging from his waist.

He let the whore's lifeless body slide down onto the ground. He barely spared her a look, she was unimportant now. A common harlot who served her purpose. He felt cleansed. A new man altogether. The heat, the rage, even the nausea – everything was gone. There was only power, power and satisfaction.

He was in control.


End file.
